That twinkle on the hill: Chapter 2/2 - Gwaldam

Chapter II - Gwaldam

Every night, when unsettled,

I have gazed up on a starless sky,

To see upon that emptiness,

A twinkle, that would make me sigh…

‘If you really want to lose yourself in these pine-scented hills, head to the temple atop the hill next to the Tibetan monastery. And if you want to tread on a larger pilgrimage, head to the Badhan Garhi temple, croyez moi - believe me, the views will absolve you of all your mortal sins.’

I listened earnestly, trying hard not to let my jaws drop in surprise.  For the tips were way beyond my Outlook Traveller guide book. And the tips were not coming from a local guide - it came from a Monsieur Vincent - an eighty year old Frenchman I happened to chance upon a hill, on an early morning in Gwaldam.

‘How long have you been here?’ I couldn’t help asking.

‘Not long, I came last week, but yes, this is my eighteenth year straight that I am coming to the Himalaya, and the fourteenth in Gwaldam.’

I was flabbergasted. ‘You have been coming here every year for the last fourteen years?’

He smiled, ‘It has a healing effect, almost therapeutic it is.’

‘And you don’t get this in your Alps?’ I asked, irony evident in my voice. But he retained his calmness. Eighteen years is a long time. 

He shook his head, ‘No, there is something here unlike any other place, overwhelm, peace, balance, call it whatever you like. Maybe there is no dictionary word for this feeling, but I know this at least, it heals me, it rejuvenates me, it helps me accept everything else in life, yet it keeps the lamp burning with just enough light to return again, one more year, and another, and the next...  

I smiled and after exchanging a few more pleasantries, left the octogenarian to his soul-seeking hike in the hills. But whether he had a word for it or not, I knew what he meant when he tried to describe the pull of the mountains. I had felt it on a dark night in Kausani, when all I could see in the nothingness was a twinkle on the hills, the call of a village named Gwaldam. And in that moment, I had felt the need to return again. 

A promise to return to the mountains is more than just a promise. Perhaps it is a vision of the future that was brought to life long back, upon that chance first encounter with the magic mountains. Maybe it is more, a blessing for having the eye to be stunned by something as simple yet powerful as fresh snow on the mountain tops. I was then blessed to return to that twinkle on the hills years later - perhaps the hills were generous to those who found their salvation in the mountain air. 

That morning in Gwaldam was a wonder indeed - It will remain a memory treasured in the innermost sanctum of my mortal mind. The enthralling tete-a-tete with Monsieur Vincent was the prologue, the real chapter was as visceral as it was overwhelming. As I continued to walk, I turned around a bend and came to a sudden halt when I saw a beautiful pyramidal peak sheathed in snow. It seemed large, grand and so close as if you could touch the snow if you took two more steps. In that moment of bliss, I had to react, vent out my exploding emotions, and the easiest way was to take out my cannon and keep snapping. I took photos - all the same - with the same snow clad peak, blue skies, framed by the foliage of the nearby deodars. And yet my fingers kept snapping, a desperate attempt to freeze time, and hold that moment on for eternity.

My reverie was broken by a passerby wood-gatherer. He stopped almost in front of me, scaring my city-bred avatar, who immediately stepped backward in alarm, sensing trouble and robbery. But the uncouth villager was unperturbed. He signalled me to follow him, upon which I raised my eyebrows in suspicion - these were after all, tell tale signs of thuggery! But I followed him, because deep within I knew my doubts were baseless. He led me to a corner, and pointed to the skies in front, and then went on his own way, whistling a hum of the hills. 

I turned my head - and in that next moment, I was bereft of all emotions. There, standing right in front - larger, grander, taller than any pinnacle I had ever seen - was the almighty Trishul, its three prongs dazzling white against a blue cloudless sky. Could it get any larger than this, I wondered only to realise that the overwhelm was so much, I was left standing without any emotion. There was no longer any urge to keep snapping, for the moment was beyond any attempt to be contained and captured. I turned my head, saw Nanda Khot to the left, the mighty Chaukhamba peeking to the right, and then sat down on the stone to gaze at the Trishul. There was nothing more I could do. I spent the entire morning thus, no palpitation, no panic, no breakfast, no tea, no photos, just white snow and blue skies, and the Mahadev showing himself in ways we mortals can understand. 

In hind-sight, that moment was the word that Monsieur Vincent had tried to describe. And I understood the difficulty - for there was no single word to describe something so powerful, so overwhelming that the boundaries of your world collapses to set up a new order, and a new way of looking at the world. If the impact of one single morning in Gwaldam was this, imagine the cumulative effect of fourteen years. Perhaps even that is insufficient, for the Skanda Purana says ‘In a thousand ages of the Gods, I could not tell thee of the glory of the Himalaya…’

That morning in Gwaldam was unforgettable. Sadly, I had to move the next day - but that evening I happened to meet Jawahar Singh Bisht, an old but much sought-after guide who arranged for hikes to the bugyals near Gwaldam, alpine meadows that stretch for mile after mile, with only the hills, sheep and horses for company.

‘They are beautiful, the bugyals, Bedni and Ali.’ He started.

‘Boo-gi-yaal’ I tried to get my pronunciation correct.

‘Yes, they are named after the Bugi grass that is found at that height of 10,000 feet.  You have to see it to understand how surreal the mountains can be.’ 

I smiled, realising there is no end to the enigma of the hills, where every turn and corner holds the promise to an unknown serendipity. 

‘I wish I had some more time to explore the meadows,’ I exclaimed, to which the veterna guide replied calmly, ‘The mountains have invested millennia to create the bugyals. It is only obvious that they expect you to spend sufficient time, how else will you befriend them, how else will you get closer, how else can you understand the secrets only revealed to the close ones…’

I smiled again in silence. Not just because of the truth in those words but because of that simplicity and calmness and open adoration for the mountains that I had seen earlier in an eighty-year old Frenchman who had found his solace in these hills. 

In this land of the divine then, age, origin, race, language - all differences were blended into one similarity - to be humbled by the mountains, and finally behold significance so strong that the true extent of your own insignificance is realised. 

No wonder then, pilgrims keep coming every year to re-realise this wonder.

As for me, I can only hope that my pilgrimage has just begun...

21st November, 2020